


Sew What If I'm A Goth?

by BadlyWrittenNewcastleFanfiction



Category: Newcastle Drag Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:33:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24272146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadlyWrittenNewcastleFanfiction/pseuds/BadlyWrittenNewcastleFanfiction
Summary: Risque wants a lover....But can this one measure up?
Relationships: Risque/Dita Von Teeside





	Sew What If I'm A Goth?

Once upon a midnight,

In a land not too far from here.

There did live a witchy wife,

Who loved showing off her rear.

Devil horns adorned her head,

Her skin a ghostly white.

A self-proclaimed queen of Halloween,

She’ll haunt you through the night.

But in the ante meridiam,

While the sun still gleams.

You’d find this witch huntched over,

A four hundred pound sewing machine.

And that is where we will begin,

With our story on this day,

Our witch awaiting their true love,

Is that lanky Goth, Risqué.

There was no doubt in her mind that Risqué loved to sew clothes. The whole experience of cutting a pattern, choosing a fabric, stitching it all together, revealing the finished product, and being paid, was something that she loved. It was a talent they had practiced for many years. And unlike Layla’s dancing, _everyone_ knew about this.

Yes, if there was one thing Risqué was known for, it was her arse….I mean the sewing…(but also, the arse. The arse was out a lot. Not that I’m complaining. I’m just saying.)

So, anyway, Risqué was the scene’s resident seamstress, when she fancied it. And it was not unheard of for her to lock herself away for days on end to finish a garment for that happy customer. Today was no different. So far.

Back aching and eyes stinging from the strain of a thousand stitches, Risqué sighed. She sat back in her chair and took a long breath. The flat was quiet, all that could be heard was a single pigeon outside singing the song of its people. Though productive, Risqué couldn’t help but feel lonely. Fortunately, this was a very Goth feeling. Shockingly, Risqué was a Goth.

She stroked her horns in thought. “Perhaps I need a lover.”

The pigeon ‘coo-ed’ in agreement.

Risqué wandered over to the window and cracked it open. The pigeon hopped over, resting on the windowsill. It ‘coo-ed’ again, bobbing its little head as it watched her with interest.

“I just don’t understand why I don’t have a lover, Mr Pigeon.” She said, sadly. “People love my clothes, but when it comes to being my friend, my lover, well, something I do must just turn them off.” Reaching out, Risqué plucked the pigeon from the windowsill, holding it firmly to prevent its escape, and bit off its head. “I just don’t get it.” She said, mouth full. “I haven’t done the midnight-salami-smuggle in months.”

Risqué crunched down hard on the skull, and threw the twitching body of the bird out of the window, closing it after her. She moved her tongue around her mouth until she located the beak, spat it into her palm, then, daintily began using it as a tooth pick to pluck out pieces of spinal cord from her gums.

“I have so much going for me.” She said to herself. “I have a sewing machine. I don’t smell that bad. I’m a bit tall.” Risqué sat down in her chair and wiped pigeon brain matter from the corner of her mouth. “I don’t understand why I don’t have friends.”

At that moment, as if someone were writing this for a live reading on an Instagram show, the phone rang.

Jumping up, and flying across the room with her fuck off huge bat wings (oh yeah, in this Risqué is also like a half bat hybrid thing), Risqué grabbed her phone, and answered it.

“Hell.” She said.

“ _Erm, excuse me_?” The other person said, confusedly.

“Hell.” Risqué confirmed. “It’s like ‘hello’ but for people who want to remind you they’re Goth.” Shockingly, Risqué was a Goth.

“ _Oh, okay_ ,” said the person.

“Who is this?”

“ _Sorry!”_ The person apologised. _“How rude of me. It’s Dita Von Teeside. I was just wondering if you could maybe make me a dress? I’ve heard you’re not the worst_.”

Risqué was thrilled. “You’ve heard correctly.”

_“It’s not the only thing I’ve heard about you.”_

“Oh?” Risqué asked, a little worried.

Dita giggled. _“I’ve also heard a lot about your womb broom.”_ Seductively, Dita purred like the tiger that ate Carole Baskin’s husband. “ _And that mud manufacturer… is legendary.”_

Risqué blushed, but gothic style, so she went slightly grey like a gargoyle. Shockingly, Risqué was a Goth “I’d love to make you a dress, Dita. Oh,” she said, “but I don’t have your measurements.”

“ _That’s fine_.” Dita said, brightly. “ _I could pop over and you could measure me. If you’re not too busy?”_

“Not at all! I _was_ going to sacrifice a lamb…” Risqué trailed off slightly, looking over at the blanket-covered box in the corner of the living room. It bleated feebly. “But Fleecy can wait until tomorrow. Come on over, Dita!”

_“See you soon, Risqué!”_ Dita said. She dropped her voice, “ _And get out every tape measure you own and start stretching. I’m a big girl and I like my seamstresses limber.”_

….

Nervously, Risqué paced her living room, awaiting Dita’s arrival. In anticipation, she had provided a small spread of blackjacks, black bullets, black beans, black berries, black currents, black pepper, black tea, and the murdered remains of all four of the Black Eyed Peas. Shockingly, Risqué was a Goth.

The doorbell rang, and Risqué flew (literally) to the door. She took a moment to compose herself, and open it.

Standing there, in her doorway, was the most beautiful _living_ woman she had ever laid her eyes upon. Frozen in place, Risqué could only smile. It was incredibly painful, as this was not a common thing to do for a Goth such as she. Shockingly, Risqué was a Goth.

“Hello.” Dita said. “May I come in?”

Risqué nodded, stepping aside, and allowing Dita to enter. She followed Dita into the living room, watching her voluptuous fudge nudger sway hypnotically as she walked. Both cheeks were snuggled tightly into a pair of leopard print velour sweatpants, with ‘Savvi’ in rhinestones across the arse. Feeling her moisture missile begin to awaken, Risqué could only dream about having her face squashed in-between those Olsen twins.

“Risqué?” Dita asked. She turned, slowly unzipping her matching velour tracksuit jacket. As the zip lowered, it became apparent that under the jacket, were no more clothes. “Would you like to…” She dropped the jacket to the ground. “Measure me now?”

In her pants, Risqué’s man root hardened. Dita glanced down and smirked, as if she psychically knew of the demon dong, as it could not be noticed, trapped securely in the realms of her skinny jeans. Skinny jeans were very Goth Shockingly, Risqué was a Goth.

“Oh-okay, Dita.” Risqué stuttered, trying and failing to tear her gaze away from the other lady’s vanilla-milk-wagons. “But before I do, let me just get a _feel_ for you.”

Dita opened her arms. “Feel away.”

To massage Dita’s body, was like Hell- but remember, to a Goth, Hell is heaven, or something. Shockingly, Risqué was a Goth.

Running her hands along the curves of Dita’s body, Risqué felt herslef becoming more and more enamoured with the woman. She had areolas the size of a Millie’s Cookie cake, and Risqué, well, she wanted a bite. Tipping her head, Risqué wrapped her lips around one hard nipple, and bit as if she were biting the head off a pigeon. The nipple came off in her teeth.

“That’s okay.” Dita said with a shrug. “I have spares.”

“Oh, Dita.” Risqué said, chewing the nipple like an undercooked pork scratching. “You’re the perfect woman for me.”

Tearing off her pants, and standing naked in the living room, bleeding from one absent nipple, Dita opened her legs. “This is all for you.” She keened. “My fish mitten is ready for your sperm worm.”

The skinny Goth jeans, too tight to tear off in lust, suddenly became like a prison. Luckily, being the seamstress she is, Risqué had a pair of fabric shears at hand, and quickly cut the jeans from herself. Dita’s mouth watered like she’d seen a deep-fried Mars bar, as Risqué’s sweaty skin whistle broke free.

“Take me, Risqué.” Dita demanded. “Let me crush your tiny Goth body with my gargantuan goodness.” The evidence of her arousal dripped down her thighs, and she swiped up some of her fanny phlegm with her fingers. Dita smeared it across Risqué’s forehead. “Simba.”

That was all it took for Risqué to become crazed with pure lust, and jump upon Dita. The two fell to the ground and began doing the Labour Social Club- Liquor in the front, Poker in the rear.

“Wow, Dita.” Risqué said. “Your sausage wallet is glorious. Can I please have the pleasure of dipping my demon distributor into your Lawrence of a Labia?”

Dita groaned. “Please do! And don’t forget to visit the marmite motorway on your way out. Keep arms and legs inside the ride at all times. Because I’m going to swallow you whole with The Notorious V.A.G.”

If you’re wondering whether Dita’s dress ever got made, I don’t know. But what I _do_ know is that Dita and Risqué fell in love, and they were a match made in Hell- remember to Goth’s that’s heaven. Shockingly Risqué was a Goth. And wherever Risqué bit the head off some diseased vermin, nothing now went to waste, because Dita ate the body. So everyone lived happily ever after. Except for the RSPCA. They were pretty mad.

_The End._


End file.
